I'd Shout it From the Rooftops
by katnisstiel
Summary: Crowley makes a deal with Castiel, though it feels a lot more like blackmail. With circumstances being what they are, he and Dean have no choice but to come face-to-face with what's between them - and Dean discovers probably the one thing that turns him off in the process. (Dean/Castiel. Oneshot.)


**Warnings:** Dean/Castiel, smut, voyeurism

**A/N:** Based off of a prompt I was given on Tumblr. It was originally only meant to be a couple thousand words, but um, it kind of got out of hand.

* * *

"Hello, Dean."

The draining tension from his muscles is instantaneous as cool relief washes through him. Those are the two best possible words he could hear after spending the past 48 hours switching between shouting himself hoarse with prayers and drinking down thoughts of worst case scenarios. Dean whips around, quickly replacing the beginnings of a smile with the darkness of anger that that bastard's earned with his little disappearing act. He'd never admit it aloud, but he'd been scared half to —

"Hello, Dean." And suddenly, with a simple change of voice, they become the two worst.

"Crowley?" Dean snaps. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Charming, as always," Crowley taunts with a straight face, looking as oddly businesslike as ever in his tailored black suit. He saunters further into the room after releasing a beaten Castiel, who he'd been holding up by the shoulders and now crumples to the floor. Dean is at his side in an instant.

"Cas, are you okay? What happened? What happened?!" The repeated question is directed at the demon who's nonchalantly pouring himself a glass of whatever selection he'd made from Dean's alcohol assemblage.

Crowley is in no rush to answer. He briefly swirls the liquid around the glass with circular motions and takes an agonizingly slow sip, wincing from the burning aftertaste but giving a small, satisfactory hum from within his throat. "Your collection's getting better," he praises absentmindedly.

"Crowley!" Dean tears himself away from checking Cas for any serious injuries to bark in agitation. "You mind telling me what the hell's going on? If you did something to him —"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch." Dean doesn't need to see Crowley rolling his eyes as he continues to survey Cas, freeing him of his bloodied trench coat. He can practically frigging _hear it_. "In fact, you should be thanking me. I was the one who saved your feathery friend."

All his motions freeze. He turns to glare coldly at the smirking demon only a few feet away, resting against the door frame of the motel room's bathroom with an almost eery level of relaxation. It goes without saying that Dean wouldn't trust Crowley with a few bucks from his wallet, let alone his angel's life. _The angel_, he corrects himself, ignoring the pang of embarrassment that nestles itself inside his chest. _The_. "What are you talking about?"

"That's right. Normally — well, in regards to myself — I'd say a little overconfidence never hurt anyone. But in Castiel's case...obviously it did." He makes a sweeping gesture toward Cas's battered state.

"Overconfidence? What does that —"

Dean looks down at Cas when the steadying grip on his shoulder tightens. Cas's jaw is clenched and he's fixed a murderous glare on Crowley, no signs that his dignity is dwindling after a demon — the one involved in his betrayal of the Winchesters, no less — had apparently rescued him.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, love," Crowley gushes with exaggerated emphasis, not sounding like he is at all. "Did you want to be the one to tell him?"

"Tell me what?" Cas still hasn't said a word beyond his initial greeting, and Dean feels concern shoot through him. "Cas, what's going on?"

Cas swallows hard and the weight of his hand on Dean's shoulder increases as he tries to push himself to his feet. Within a second, Dean's arm is gripping Cas firmly around his waist and hoisting him up. He ignores the uncomfortable sensation of Crowley's amusement-bright eyes watching them.

"I'll explain," the angel finally manages, his voice ragged. "Just...just get him out of here." He waves a hand ungracefully in Crowley's direction, attempting to stagger toward one of the beds on the opposite end of the room. He trips over his own feet before he's even made it a few inches, and is caught by Dean before he plummets back onto the floorboards.

"You heard him," Dean growls over his shoulder. "Leave."

Crowley's lips are still quirked in a sly grin, looking for all the world like he's in on some hilarious private joke. Dean won't pretend that it doesn't annoy the hell out of him.

"I'll be back for more refreshments in a few." When Dean throws another glance his way, the demon is gone and he and Cas are alone.

They make it to the bed with Cas still in one piece. He groans as Dean eases him down onto the mattress, left hand rushing to clutch his ribcage.

"Cas, what the hell happened to you, man?" Dean's previous gruff tone has been replaced with a coaxing, yet undemanding gentleness, his words soft with worry.

"It's okay, Dean," Cas assures, offering a weak smile that's twisted no sooner than it's appeared into a grimace of pain. "The worst of it will be healed by tomorrow."

Dean pauses. He abruptly leaves the foot of the bed, where he'd been crouched, to retrieve the trench coat still lying abandoned in the middle of the room. "No, you're not avoiding the question at all."

"Dean, I..." He hears Cas sigh behind him. "I was in battle."

Dean hangs the trench coat on the back of the nearest chair and returns to sit next to Cas on the bed. "In battle? Why, with who?"

"With —" there's a sharp intake of breath as Dean finishes unbuttoning Cas's final layer and peels it from his blood-sticky skin — "with other angels."

The shirt's removal reveals the wound on his side. It's a nasty gash, one that could've already proved fatal if Cas were human. His vessel's blood flow is no longer stunted by his hand, and it courses out freely now through the white-blue shine of his grace. Dean tries to maintain focus on the story behind it as he bunches up the shirt and presses it gingerly to the crimson opening. Mainly, it's because he's suspicious of Crowley and needs to know how he's involved; but he also figures that conversation is a good means of distracting Cas from the pain.

"Angels, what for?"

"They were guarding a...another tablet."

"Tablet as in word of God tablet?"

"Yes. I tried to retrieve it, but I...I was unsuccessful."

Dean tears a long strip of fabric from the shirt's sleeve, murmuring an apology as Cas bites back a cry from the sudden movement against his wound. He wraps the strip around Cas's waist and fastens it on the opposite side, satisfied when the makeshift bandage stays in place. "Well, don't worry about it. I should call Sam, tell him to get a first aid kit on his way back. You picked a perfect time to nearly get yourself killed, you know that?"

"I don't see how it's my fault that you forgot yours in last week's motel," Cas grumbles.

Dean's furrowed brow softens at the defeated expression on his face. His lips are pursed and he isn't meeting Dean's eyes, an unmistakable blush of embarrassment reddening his cheeks. It's a mix of annoyance and humiliation, and he wants to continue prodding, to find out more of the pieces that'll slot into the story's blanks. Somehow, though, he doesn't have it in him at the moment. All he wants is to wash Cas's discomfort away.

Before he really knows what he's doing, his hand is placed tenderly on the side of Cas's face. Blue eyes immediately lock with his, and hell if his heart doesn't momentarily stop. His thumb sweeps across a cheekbone, slow with shy hesitation, and at the sight of Cas's eyelids fluttering closed when Dean's fingers slip lightly into his hair, he feels a warmth he can't put a name to unfurl throughout his body.

"I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

Dean jerks his hand away, standing up, when the wicked delectation in Crowley's voice creeps unpleasantly beneath his skin. "I thought I told you to fuck off."

"And I obliged, kind soul that I am. Though I suppose I shouldn't have underestimated your complete inability to communicate and given you more than ten minutes." Dean's scowl is met with yet another puke-worthy smirk. "Castiel, you had your chance, darling, and I'm afraid now it's my turn."

Cas studies his lap intently, shame still coloring his face bright red.

"I believe you hurt your poor angel's feelings and sent him on a mission to prove you wrong."

Dean narrows his eyes, searching Crowley's words for their contained meaning when it suddenly dawns on him. The fight they'd had the other day, before he'd woken up to a Cas-less motel room. Well, more like a brief argument, a back-and-forth trading in the Impala of accusations and rebuttals — a lover's spat, Sam had joked, earning himself a smack from his brother on the back of his head. It had been over the same worn-out subject of Cas joining them on their hunts, and Dean's incessant worrying the more he noticed the angel's abilities draining out of him. Stupid is what it had really been, and it had finally culminated into the words Dean hadn't meant of "You're inexperienced, Cas, and without all your mojo, I'm sorry, but you're a liability." They'd sat heavy among his thoughts the rest of the drive back to the motel, replaying themselves over and over — but, prideful idiot that he is, he couldn't bring himself to apologize. He hadn't been able to look Cas in the eye for the rest of the night, knowing the hurt inside them would destroy him, and the next morning, Cas was gone.

Crowley's grinning with a sick kind of satisfaction as he watches Dean connect the dots. The hunter turns to face Cas, awash with guilt and internally kicking himself when all he can think to say is, "You told him?"

"Some of it. He put two and two together himself."

"This isn't Dr. Fucking Phil we're talking about here, Cas, this is Crowley. Evil, lying, manipulative bastard Crowley."

"Easy there, mate," Crowley calls from behind, feigning hurt feelings but voice edged with its usual sarcasm. "Even demons have feelings, you know."

Dean rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand over his face. "Alright, I still don't see what this has to do with anything. So Cas went to defend his own honor and you happened to...to be in the neighborhood and saved him out of the goodness of your heart?"

"You could choose to see it that way."

"Well, what way is it really?" Dean's in no mood for the King of Cryptic Bullshit.

Crowley's smirk suddenly dies, replaced by a hard stare boring directly into Dean. He takes his hands out of his pants pockets and starts walking closer. Dean's gut reaction finds him gripping the hilt of Ruby's knife at his side.

"Castiel screwed me over," he whispers coldly, mere inches from Dean's face. "I'm not stupid enough to pass up an opportunity that puts him in my debt."

"So because you swooped in at the nick of time, you think Cas is just gonna bow down and kiss your feet? If he screwed you over once, what makes you think he won't do it again?"

"Because this time, I've sweetened the pot. Isn't that right, Castiel?" He peers at the angel over Dean's shoulder, blowing an air kiss.

"Dean. Get away from him." The dark, commanding tone, yet tinged with desperation, takes him by surprise, and he backs away from Crowley before turning. Cas is glaring at the demon, the fingers of his left hand clutching tightly enough at the shirt against his wound to make his knuckles go white, as if he's trying to restrain himself while in a state unfit for a fight.

"Look at that," Crowley sneers in mock amazement. "What a good boy you are, doing as you're told."

"If someone doesn't tell me what the fuck is going on in the next ten seconds, I'm using this knife on the both of you!"

Crowley opens his mouth like he's about to explain, but then closes it and raises his eyebrows at Dean incredulously. "Oh...Oh, you poor bastard. You really haven't the faintest idea, do you?"

"Obviously not, genius."

The smirk is back. Crowley strides toward Dean and throws an arm over his shoulders. Dean still hasn't taken his hand off the knife, and now he grips it just as hard as Cas does the shirt. "You, my friend, are temptation on two legs."

"Well, that's...flattering, Crowley, really, but I don't go home with hellspawn."

"Now _there's_ that cocky humor that I just...loathe about you." He says it through a grin, dropping his arm and stepping back. "But see, I'm talking about your friend Cas — or whatever the hell he is to you."

All of Dean's muscles tense. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I _feel_ for the guy. If someone betrayed Heaven for me and died for me over and over, I'd have taken the hint by now."

He assumes from Crowley's visible entertainment that he looks like an idiot opening and closing his mouth, at an utter loss of what to say back. He dares to look at Cas, who snaps his gaze away from where it had obviously been trained on Dean a moment before. His stomach does nervous somersaults as things begin to click — though it's nothing that, if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't already know, no matter how skilled he is at convincing himself he doesn't. It's just that...well, when the time came for him to face up to it, he hadn't really imagined pouring his heart out to fucking Crowley.

"I don't know what more he'd have to do to prove it to you. It's sort of funny, isn't it? How not even you know, when you two have such a wide audience already."

The look on Cas's face is as confused as he's sure his own is. "Come again?" Despite his voice still being breathy with exhaustion, it's more of a growled demand than a question.

"Yes, sorry, I neglected to mention that part." Crowley shrugs, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "You couple of morons are practically your own soap opera. I invite you to find me a witch, demon, what have you who _doesn't_ want the next update on _Days of Cas and Dean's Lives_." They both gape at him, wide-eyed, and apparently that's the final straw that gets him laughing. "It's all for kicks, of course. Funnier than watching a hellhound trying to catch its own tail."

If this was some piss-ant demon and not the goddamn King of Hell, Dean's knife would've been plunged hilt-deep in its chest by now. He grits his teeth, his heavy breathing equal parts anger and the struggle to withstand violence.

"I know, it must be a real blow to the head. If you'd have found out earlier, you could've made some money off of this. But lucky for you, and thanks to me, you'll at least get some fun out of it."

Dean doesn't notice Cas staggering to his feet before it's too late to stop him from barreling past and pinning Crowley to the wall.

"You didn't say _anything_ about this." The light that had been peeking out from underneath his shirt is gone now, and that paired with the force with which he'd shoved Crowley indicates he's already begun to heal. Dean stops himself from rushing to Cas's aid and lets himself breathe. "Our agreement was that you'd leave Dean be during this wild goose chase for the tablets if I found you souls willing to sell themselves."

Crowley drops his jaw and gasps in a show of heightened disbelief. "Well, look at that. _I_ put one over on _you_."

Cas holds him fast for several tense seconds before releasing him. The angel sways, threatening to fall forward into Crowley, but Dean is immediately there to steady him.

"Believe me, the souls are still very much a part of this," Crowley ensures, smoothing his jacket where Cas had rumpled it in his fists. "And I won't lay a finger on your precious hunter provided you cooperate. Both of you."

Dean's uncertainty spikes sharply into fear at the glint in Crowley's eye. There could be any number of plans the demon's concocted that, somehow, involve what's between him and Cas — something he hadn't expected to have to handle at the request of someone he'd revel in stabbing to death. Shit, he can't even _say it_, probably because he's not completely sure what 'it' is. Braving a product of Crowley's sadistic mind might be less of a daunting prospect if what it concerned was any different. But this...this _thing_ — this unspoken, nine kinds of complicated thing — that he hadn't stared in the face in...well...ever? He'd be a damned liar if he said that didn't terrify him.

"I, uh...I think I need to call Sam."

* * *

"He wants you to _what?!_"

"Don't make me have to say it again."

Sam is gawking at him from the edge of the motel room's shabby couch — "I think you might want to sit down" was the first thing Dean had said to him when he'd walked in, first aid kit in hand per his brother's request. He huffs out a humorless laugh and drags a hand through his hair. "Okay, let me get this straight —"

"Do you think you could get it straight in your head? I've had to hear it out loud twice already."

"Dean, I'm serious!"

"Am I laughing?" Dean spreads his hands to present himself, eyes as wide with exasperation as they had been when he'd filled Sam in.

"Let me just...let me process this." He perches an elbow on his thigh, burying his face in his palm and sighing heavily. "Crowley wants you to...people will sign over their souls to..." He removes his hand, waving it in a gesture of confusion. "Do witches want to see you two going at it that bad?"

"For the love of _God_, Sam, _in your head!_"

An amused smile grows on his lips and Dean feels like punching it off him. "No, I mean, I guess I get it. It's like...internet porn, supernatural edition."

"I hate you so much." He flops down on the couch next to his brother, grunting. It's been a long day.

"What does Cas have to say about all this?"

"What do you mean what does Cas have to say? He's gushing blood, I think that's a bigger concern of his right now." He turns his head to the side and raises his voice. "Hey, how you doing in there, Cas?"

Cas's response of "I'm fine" drifts from the bathroom, where he's cleaning and bandaging the remnants of his wound.

"You know, Dean..."

He inwardly groans. If there's one thing he hates, it's sentences from Sam that start with "You know, Dean..."

"You and Cas are gonna have to talk about this eventually. About...things."

"Trust me, you don't have to remind me."

As if on cue, Cas limps out of the bathroom. Dean is off the couch immediately, helping the angel into the recliner chair opposite the TV, and he doesn't notice Sam grinning at them like a little snot — he _doesn't_. Without a word, his brother's up too, gathering his extracted things and stuffing them back into his duffel bag.

"What are you doing?" Dean inquires, sounding more accusatory than he probably should.

Sam slings the bag over his shoulder. "I think it'd be a good idea if I got a separate room."

An icy flash of panic and embarrassment surges through him, cold sweat starting to gather on his skin. "What for?"

"Dean." The terse uttering of his name is followed by a bitchface that practically spells out _Don't bullshit me_. "Blame Crowley for starting this crap, but I just...I don't want to get in the way."

Dean sighs and relaxes his shoulders in resignation. "Whatever."

"I'll check in tomorrow morning," Sam promises from over his shoulder, and then the shut of the door behind him kicks off roughly ten seconds of the most awkward silence Dean's ever experienced.

Cas doesn't seem bothered. He's very interested — whether for show or not, Dean can't be sure — on the cooking program flashing across the TV screen. He's sitting there shirtless, but without any indication that he's cold. It's a relief, in a way, that that's an all too human quality he still lacks.

Dean rubs the back of his neck and laughs nervously. "Daytime TV is crap, Cas. You can just change the channel."

"Why? This is fine."

"Well...okay, _I _want to change the channel. If, uh, if that's good with you."

Cas shrugs. He leans toward the coffee table to retrieve the remote, hissing as the skin around his wound bends. Dean rushes forward impulsively, flattening his hand against Cas's chest and easing him back against the recliner.

"Dammit, Cas, be careful. Did you start bleeding again?"

"I'm okay, Dean, really. I think I just need to rest."

Heat rushes to his face when he realizes he hasn't moved his hand. If he feels a dull ache of loss when he pulls away, giving up the gentle rise and fall of Cas's breathing beneath his fingers, he pretends like he doesn't. His eyes explore the room, looking at everything but the half-naked angel below him — he cringes at what a shitty time it is to think about it in terms like that — and settling on the once-white shirt tossed to the bathroom floor. The trench coat, still hanging on the chair Dean had draped it across, isn't much better.

"Until your mojo's juiced back up enough to use it as a washing machine, you might want some new clothes." Cas frowns, apparently not getting the picture. "Unless red's your color or something." _Which it's not because it's blue. Wait, what? Shut up._

"Oh...right."

Dean spots his own duffel bag from where he'd thrown it into the corner of the room and walks over to get it. He fishes inside it briefly, pulling out a navy t-shirt and a pair of worn-out jeans. Cas's attention is startled away from where it had once again been honed in on the TV screen when Dean thrusts the clothes into his line of vision.

"Here. They might be a little big, but they should be fine for now."

Cas stares at the offering for what feels like a long time, lips parted and eyes absorbing every inch of the fabric like Dean's presenting him with the freaking holy grail.

"Thank you, Dean," he says finally, taking the shirt and jeans almost tentatively.

Dean's heart nearly flies right out of his mouth as Cas sets the clothes on the recliner's armrest and starts undoing his belt. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?"

"Would you prefer I changed in private?"

"Uh...yeah, Cas. No offense or anything."

Cas stares at him, head tilted and brow creased with that bewildered, contemplative Cas look that always somehow manages to be endearing and annoying at the same time. "I'm not offended. I just don't see why we shouldn't get used to the idea while we can."

Shit, Dean hadn't expected to have this conversation so soon. He'd kind of been hoping to get drunk first. He puts his hands behind his head, lacing his fingers together and pushing against them as he looks up at the ceiling, which isn't for the sole purpose of averting Cas's penetrating gaze or anything.

"You're uncomfortable."

"No, I'm just —"

"It's alright, Dean. We don't have to discuss this now." Cas puts his hands on his knees and heaves himself out of the chair, clearly putting effort into controlling a face that wants to wince. He grabs the clothes, pressing them against his bare skin, and Dean swallows hard at the knowledge that those are _his_ clothes. He wears them regularly. They smell like him, and now maybe they'll smell like Cas too, those lingering traces of fresh mountain air and rain. Dean's always wondered if they come from clouds that Cas flies through when in his true form.

If Cas had been waiting for him to respond, he'd missed his chance, and his eyes trail after the angel as he moves slowly to the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He hears the sharp drop of Cas's belt buckle on the tiled floor, and is he really licking his lips as thoughts of what other parts of Cas's body will be touching his clothes run through his mind?

Communication is hard, and he's out the door and in the solitude of the Impala when he realizes that so is he.

* * *

Dean's tried some kinky shit in his lifetime, he's not gonna lie, but this? This has got to be the most outlandish thing he's ever done. He's never considered himself one for stage fright, either, but his skin is burning hot with the self-conscious need to perform — well, he guesses the close proximity of Cas underneath him is playing a part too.

He tries to drown out their surroundings, to blend the sleazy motel room and the onlookers into one big blotch of color. Shutting his eyes and bringing himself lower, his lips meet Cas's neck and he lets the catcalls fall away in exchange for gasps and moans by his ear. He isn't keeping track of time, but it can't have been more than fifteen minutes that they've been lying here. It seems more like hours, though, as he's long since lost himself in the rhythm of his thrusts.

It feels fucking _amazing_, to say the least, better than he's ever experienced with any woman. He hears part of his mind whispering that maybe his choice of partner makes all the difference, but he ignores it. Right now, all he cares about is the pleasure pulsating through him, sending electric waves shooting up and down his spine. He shifts his position subtly, though it's enough for the volume of Cas's moans to skyrocket as Dean meets his prostate head-on — literally. He increases his pace, the violent jerking of his hips a stark contrast to the tender kisses he's lining Cas's jawline with, and the gentle strokes of his fingers through that sweat-damp mess of dark hair. He feels warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach, and if the clenching of Cas's muscles around him is any indication, the angel's as close to release as he is. His thrusts start involuntarily growing erratic, and he reaches a hand down to wrap around Cas's cock.

"Fuck!"

Dean's about to think to himself how _holy shit hot _it is to hear an angel of the Lord curse like that when he realizes that it hadn't been Cas. All at once, the reality of the situation comes hurtling back, submerging him in a tsunami of humiliation as he comes.

"DEAN!"

Dean is jolted awake by the loud pounding on the Impala window closest to his ear. He reaches for his knife before he sees Sam through the glass, brow furrowed and mouth agape. Fantastic. Sam's disapproving mother look.

"What?" he snaps, rolling down the window.

"You really slept out here all night? Sharing a room with Cas was too much for you?"

Dean groaned, throwing his head back against the driver's seat. "It happened by accident, alright? I just needed some air. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You locked yourself in the Impala to get some air? Right." Sam is scoffing and disappearing into Cas and Dean's room before his brother can defend himself.

"Bitch," Dean mutters under his breath. He reaches his arms over the back of the seat to stretch out his muscles, stiff from the cramped space, and — oh, shit. He feels the wet stickiness the second the fabric of his boxers move. Fan-_fucking_-tastic.

He's reaching for the door handle, running through a game plan of how to make it hurriedly to the bathroom without raising suspicions, when movement in the rearview mirror has him nearly jumping out of his seat.

"Dammit, Crowley, don't do that."

"Sorry, Dean. I hate to see you stressed." Crowley softens his voice with fake concern. He leans forward, propping his arms on the back of the driver's and passenger's seats. "So, bring me up to speed. Have you and your angel worked out the details?"

"He's not _my _— no, we haven't."

"Of course not. Why should I have expected anything else?" The demon is suddenly in the seat next to Dean, rubbing his forehead like he's in pain. Dean can only hope. "Toying with you used to be fun, but you must be getting dumber, because this...this all feels more like explaining astronomy to a three-year-old."

Dean glares through drooping eyelids. He's tired, and so, _so _fucking through with Crowley's wordplay before he's even really started it. "Well, by all means then, tell it like it is. I've got the whole general, creepy idea, but I'd like to know exactly what I'm walking into if that's alright."

Crowley sighs like Dean's asking the world of him. "I've already got a whole list of souls lined up for front row seats. You, pretty boy, are in high demand, and if you don't supply, my contracts go out the window."

"Yeah? Why should I give a shit?" Crowley's words about "sweetening the pot" suddenly resurface, along with the memory of Cas demanding that Dean back away.

"My patience for the Winchesters and their winged euphemism has been worn to its absolute thinnest," Crowley responds, sounding more like he's talking to himself. "Once I knew for sure that your and Castiel's...situation wasn't all just hype, what easier way to make deals by the bucket load, all the while getting to bathe in revenge?"

"And if we bail?" He tenses at the cold eyes turned on him.

"I stop being generous. You have two days, Dean. Two and it's showtime. Oh, here." The ice in his expression is melted into pleasantness so fast Dean almost has to do a double-take. Crowley pulls a handkerchief, embroidered with a single black _C_, out of his jacket pocket and hands it to Dean.

"What the hell's this for?"

Crowley smirks devilishly, glancing down at Dean's crotch. "The mess."

* * *

Dean knows he must be giving a hell of a lot away from his inability to look Cas in the eye all morning. It hadn't been noticeable in the Impala, despite him pointedly staring past Cas whenever he'd had to check his rearview mirror. Seated in a booth at the nearest diner, though, he doesn't doubt that it's painfully obvious. Sam confirms as much when he exaggeratedly clears his throat and Dean's fixed with a stern glower after glancing up.

"What?"

"Can I talk to you outside?"

"No."

Sam opens his mouth to push further, but Dean's saved by the waitress when she brings over their breakfasts and places them on the table. Sam thanks her, smiling pleasantly. He glares at Dean one more time for good measure before digging into his pancakes.

Why the _fuck_ had Dean ordered sausage? He drops his fork in disbelief at his own stupidity, catching Cas's attention with the sound of it clanking onto his plate.

"You're not hungry?"

"No, I'm..." Dean looks down, pretending there's a loose thread he has to pull from his shirt. "Just eat your breakfast, Cas." He sees Cas shrug out of the corner of his eye, returning focus to his meal, and exhales in relief.

This is getting ridiculous.

Dean forces himself to behave like a normal person as he eats his eggs and — sausage. Cas isn't making it the easiest thing in the world, what with his occasionally shifting thigh brushing up against Dean's — why are they even on the same side of the booth? — and his long-fingered hands that should really _not_ be as attractive as they are curling around his silverware. As hard as Dean concentrates on not meeting that blue gaze, he can't avoid the mere presence of Cas at the moment and how intoxicating that is all on its own, like he could get drunk off it to the dangerous point of releasing his inhibitions. Which, consequently, would pave a clear road to what he'd had to wash away in the shower this morning. Or maybe it would happen _in _the shower.

He feels like banging his head against the wall repeatedly, thinking maybe that would knock all the memories of his wet dream — and some new fantasies starting to form — right out through his ears. He's just covering all the bases, that's obviously all it is. Preparing for whatever fuckfest Crowley has planned. He suppresses a shudder at the sheer thought of it, let alone that _word_. Of all people — or demons, for that matter — he'd choose to be his pimp, Crowley skims the bottom of the list.

Surprisingly, what about his dream strikes him as the strangest isn't that he and Cas had been doing what Crowley had arranged. It's that they..._hadn't_ been. Sure, the lead-up had been a pawn in whatever sick game the demon has going, but nothing beyond that had been orchestrated. No _you top, he bottoms_ rules or _save the handjob for the big finish_. In the passion of the moment — and shit, it _had_ been passionate — every move made had been their own. The moans weren't staged, their positions weren't based on anyone's preferences but theirs (or rather, their whims, because as if they'd really taken time away from undressing each other to plan it), and Dean's awareness of being watched had been reduced to nothing when he'd been overcome by how much he didn't care as long as he was this close to Cas. He's never gotten off on voyeurism and still doesn't, so it hadn't been like _that_. What he means is that the second he'd pressed every inch of his skin against Cas's, inhaling his amazing scent, feeling his breath against his ear and the vibrations of his moan against his tongue when he'd dragged it slow up Cas's throat, it was like everyone around them had faded into the walls and disappeared. He couldn't have cared less at that point about impressing others, giving them the show they'd sold their damn souls for. (Those would have to be some pretty immoral bastards to know they were going to Hell anyway so they figured, why not?) Somehow, in the presence of God knows how many perverts, they'd achieved an incredible height of intimacy that had poured over Dean, immersing him completely — and Cas definitely hadn't cared about his audience either. He'd moaned for _Dean_. He'd come for Dean.

He feels dirty when he takes notice of the fact that he's half-hard sitting in a public restaurant with his fucking brother across from him. He grabs his coffee and downs it, glad it's cooled by now because it would've been too late by the time he'd realized it was still scorching. Sam raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn't pursue the weird behavior when Dean shoots him a _not now_ kind of look (or at least, that's what he's aiming for). He just wants to get back to the motel and away from all these strangers, any one of whom could be a customer for _Dean and Cas: The Private Show_. He thinks he needs to take another shower. A cold one this time.

* * *

Dean spends most of the day warding off thoughts of Cas that are getting increasingly more creative. Hell, with all the ideas he's coming up with, maybe Crowley's right and they _could've_ been making money off this. He's supposed to be researching potential cases, but surrendering to his vivid imagination is much more enjoyable. After awhile, he stops trying to catch himself, stops trying to make excuses for his own bodily reactions or telling himself he should feel guilty.

He remembers what Cas had said last night, about how they should get used to the idea while they can. _The idea_, of course, is an easy way to summarize everything it actually entails. Kissing, seeing each other naked, doing what Dean has done with women but in entirely new ways. Trading soft curves for roughness, giving up the sweet taste of lipgloss and the remnants of perfume in exchange for stubble and that rain scent. He knows he's thinking as if this will be any different from his other one-night stands, something that will mean enough to be indefinite. And, well, that's because it will be. _The idea_ has a sense of finality to it, and maybe that's the real problem here: the promise of commitment the moment a certain line is crossed, rather than the fact that Cas's now-Jimmyless vessel happens to be a guy.

Dean likes guys. He wouldn't exactly shout it from a rooftop, but somewhere along the line, he accepted it. Up until now, though, he's had a _look, don't touch_ attitude that hasn't been any cause for conflict. He's never actually had the urge to go home with a man, never reveled in a hundred versions of fantasies like he is now. This is different, and he'd be kidding himself if he tried to think it wasn't. This isn't just a guy. This isn't even just a person. This is _Cas_, and Dean wants him. He doesn't want a hook-up, a distraction, or a living fantasy. He just wants him.

And he surprises himself with how right that feels. That idea.

* * *

Cas is pinned to the door almost as soon as he's latched it. He drops the brown paper bag he'd been holding out of shock. It contains condoms and lube, because apparently, Crowley isn't footing that bill, but Dean had failed to mention that he didn't plan on saving it all for two days from now.

"Dean, what —"

Before he can let his nerves get the best of him, Dean rushes forward and cuts Cas off by pressing their mouths together. He hears a sharp intake of breath from between Cas's parted lips before the angel is melting into the touch and kissing back. There's a whimper of protest when Dean pulls away.

"Practice," he explains breathily before reestablishing the contact.

It feels like they stand there forever, exploring each other's mouths for the first time and letting their hands wander for the first time and _shit_, Cas slotting his leg between Dean's thighs so he can rub against it is definitely new too. He groans into Cas at the friction, rocking his hips forward at a slow speed that quickly turns into a fast-paced neediness. Maybe he should stop, maybe they should move to the bed or he should be getting Cas off too, or _something_, but all he can focus on right now is how good this feels paired with the taste of Cas's tongue. Another minute goes by and he's coming without even having unbuckled his goddamn belt, what would've been a loud cry muffled by Cas's lips and sounding more like a grunt.

Dean slumps against Cas, arms coming up to wrap around his waist and support him. He presses their foreheads together, breathing heavily against the angel's lips. Neither of them do anything for several seconds, Cas giving Dean time to recompose himself. When he presses into Cas to kiss him again, there's the obvious hardness of his unattended-to erection against Dean's stomach, and he feels selfish. He twines his fingers with Cas's and takes a step back, crouching down to retrieve the bag from the floor and pausing to mouth at the clothed arousal in front of him before rising. He'll need a few more minutes to be able to get it up again, but the moan he hears on his way back to standing goes straight to his dick nonetheless.

He pulls Cas toward the bed, both of them able to get their shoes and socks off without too much fumbling, and traps him in another kiss. Gently moving him onto the mattress and abandoning the bag at the foot of it, Dean climbs over him, settling down in his lap. It takes barely any time of grinding, shirts being stripped off in the process and his hands making a monstrosity of Cas's hair, to get Dean hard again, but Cas is a larger concern right now. He moves back a few inches and places his lips on Cas's collarbone, using his tongue to rub circles against the slightly tanned skin as he trails kisses down toward his pants line. He pauses to take each nipple into his mouth, satisfied with the hisses of pleasure from Cas when he bites down on them softly.

He feels a hand grip the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. "Down," Cas growls authoritatively, and holy fuck, does that simple word get him throbbing more than he'd have expected it to. He obeys without a thought, giving up his unhurried progression of kisses and lowering himself to Cas's groin. Once the belt's out of the way and the button's popped open, he takes his time with the zipper, smirking at the frustrated grunts above him. He grips both Cas's jeans and boxers and pulls them down simultaneously, sitting up and shifting so he can remove them fully before he's back in his previous position.

He can honestly say this is the most up-close and personal he's ever been with another man's cock — or an angel's, whatever. Cas is leaking precome, and out of curiosity, Dean swipes his tongue over the head. Cas's reaction is instant, a loud, throaty groan and an upwards buck. The fact that he'd administered it gives him an ego boost, and suddenly, he's downing half of Cas's cock without any hesitation. He removes his mouth just long enough to lick the entire length before taking it in again. This time he sucks — hard — and begins sliding his lips up and down, using a hand to hold what he can't handle without gagging. He starts off slow, but Cas's grip on his hair tightens the louder his moans get, and pretty soon he's directing the pace himself by pushing against Dean's head. This goes on for he doesn't keep track of how many minutes, him using both hands now to grip Cas's hips and feeling a damn death vice on his skull, before Cas arches off the bed and warm come is being shot down his throat. The sounds Cas makes as Dean's lips work him through his orgasm, a fluctuating mixture of moans and shouts, have to be some of the greatest things he's ever heard, and he can't wait to hear them again.

Coming off Cas's cock with an audible pop, Dean crawls back up to sit in his lap, burying his fingers in black hair as he shares the taste of come. He breaks the kiss for the sole purpose of observing how Cas looks after climax. His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark with an animalistic lust that makes Dean's heart pound even harder, his parted lips thoroughly kissed and arousal coloring his face red. He hardly notices Cas dragging his eyes hungrily down Dean's torso, getting no warning before his hips are grabbed and he's being lifted and thrown onto his back. Cas is at the foot of the bed reaching inside the bag, kicking it to the floor after retrieving the bottle of lube and a condom. He works on removing Dean's final layers with barely controlled haste, a small moan that escapes him at the sight of the hunter's cock sending prideful warmth through Dean's body.

Dean closes his eyes when he sees Cas coating his fingers with lube. He's nervous, he won't deny that. He isn't a virgin at much with women, but all this? New territory. He concentrates on keeping his breathing steady and relaxing his muscles, guessing it'll hurt worse if he's tense. At Cas's soft-spoken request, he raises his legs by placing the soles of his feet on the mattress and spreads them. He fists the blankets on either side of him and waits.

After a few more seconds, he feels something cold at his entrance. He grits his teeth as Cas pushes tentatively inside — and it's actually not that bad. Uncomfortable for sure, since this is something he's never even tried on his own, but the pain is limited to a tolerable burning and Cas is being...incredibly gentle. Dean opens his eyes to see Cas kneeling between his feet, tongue sticking out slightly between his lips like he's in deep concentration as he moves his finger slowly in and out, and that makes Dean smile. He gives a drawn-out sigh, ending it with an intentional moan to show Cas he's fine. Like he'd hoped, any tension in Cas's face is drained at that, and after a few more thrusts, he adds another finger. When he crooks them at just the right angle, Dean's moan is real. It's practically punched out of him as Cas hits his prostate, sending a kind of pleasure he's never felt before rippling through him. Shit, why _hasn't_ he tried this on his own?

Cas must take that as his cue to pick up the pace, and Dean's grateful he does as his prostate is stroked again and again and he's almost fucking writhing just from this. He reaches down to touch himself, but his hand is promptly slapped away by Cas, who leans down and kisses the base of his shaft. He groans out the angel's name as he feels a tongue being trailed lightly up his length, Cas nuzzling the side of his head and murmuring, "Be patient." Fuck patience. Fuck how bad it'll probably hurt if he isn't prepared enough. But Cas makes sure he is, forcing him to wait as he scissors him open with three fingers now and places another kiss to his cock. Finally, he pulls out and he's hard again. Grabbing the supplies and slicking himself up after he's rolled on the condom, he positions himself, rubbing his hands along Dean's thighs before resting them at his hips and leaning forward to hover over him.

"Ready?" he breathes against Dean's mouth, and it's playful, almost mocking, because the bastard clearly knows Dean's _been_ ready.

"Yes, Cas, fuck yes," Dean growls.

That's all the invitation Cas needs before he's sliding inside and crushing their lips together. Dean holds back a whimper, knowing the burning's only temporary and trusting Cas more than enough to be careful with him. Cas draws halfway out before angling himself and pushing back in. This time, the pain dissolves into pleasure as Dean's prostate is grazed, and he rocks his hips forward for more. He wants movement, goddammit. Cas doesn't have to be _this_ cautious. His impatient groans seem to get the message across and Cas pulls out before snapping his hips forward, thrusting back in at full force. Dean breaks their kiss and throws his head back against the pillow, crying out, "Fuck!" at the surge of pleasure.

They pick up a pace now, sloppy and out of sync at first, but soon finding a rhythm and moving together fluidly. Dean digs his nails into the angel's back, losing himself in the sensations and moaning freely once Cas's mouth's attention is instead directed to Dean's neck and throat. He feels teeth biting hard enough to leave marks he'll have for days, and a hot tongue lapping at his pulse point. His cock is throbbing and he scrambles to get a hold on it, but again, Cas is smacking his hand down before he can. He slides his own hand infuriatingly slowly down Dean's chest, and Dean groans loudly when long, slender fingers finally wrap around his erection and start pumping. He times it with his thrusts until Dean is losing his fucking mind, growing more and more frantic as he feels his climax approaching and unable to decide whether to rock forward onto Cas's cock or buck up into his hand. Cas is chanting his name against the skin of his neck like it's a prayer, and when Dean finally comes harder than he can ever remember, vision whiting out and cracking voice turning what would've been a scream into a choked-out sob, it's only seconds before Cas is spilling his release too.

His final thought before his mind goes blank is that he almost regrets Cas wearing a condom. He wants to know what it would feel like to be came inside of, and he feels like a whore for thinking it, but he also doesn't care.

* * *

Dean decides that he loves cuddling with Cas, even if he'd rather shoot himself in the head than admit it out loud. A half hour later, they're under the covers with just the bedside lamp on, casting Cas's face in shadows that bring out his jawline and the sloping curves of his cheekbones. His hair is still a mess, and Dean hasn't stopped making it worse, running his fingers through it while Cas is nestled against his chest beneath his chin. He places soft kisses along the angel's hairline, and Cas responds with kisses of his own to Dean's collarbone.

"Was that enough practice, Dean?" Cas murmurs into his skin.

Dean grins. "Yeah. For now, at least. We still have two days."

Cas looks up at that, meeting Dean's eyes in confusion. "Two days?"

"Right, crap, I forgot to tell you..." He eases Cas's head back down to his chest. "Crowley showed up this morning. He, uh...he said he'd be back in two days, and then...'showtime' or whatever." All he gets is a hum of recognition. "Cas, are you...how are you taking all this?"

There's silence for a few seconds. "I feel like an idiot."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"If I hadn't let my ridiculous pride get bruised, I wouldn't have —"

"No, hey, listen, I was the one who made that dick comment in the first place. If you want to blame anyone for this shit, blame me."

Cas tilts his head back, settling it on Dean's shoulder and looking up at him with a faint smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "I don't blame you. Even if you are kind of a dick."

Dean laughs. "Alright, I deserve that. But that's your one free shot." He closes the distance between them, pressing his lips lightly to Cas's. "We don't have to do this, you know. We can find some way to get out of it, and I never miss a chance to double cross a jackass like Crowley."

The amusement suddenly fades from Cas's face. He frowns and his expression darkens. "Don't, Dean. Please don't try it."

His brow furrows with concern. "Why not, what's the big deal? We've screwed him over before."

"Exactly, we, each of us. Not...never us together before."

"So? Strength in numbers."

"No, Dean, because you're my weakness." Cas raises his voice when he says it, sounding almost angry. They stare at each other in silence before he finally sighs and buries his face in Dean's neck.

"Will he hurt you if we don't?"

"I don't know, but he'll hurt you. And with my...mojo, as you call it, not completely back, I'll be unable to protect you. I'm sorry, Dean, but I won't risk that and you can't ask me to."

The words weigh heavy in Dean's head. How the hell did he get here, to this point, to being wrapped comfortably around an angel in a warm bed and utterly submerged in affection? How did a creature so holy, infinitely grander than himself, manage to see worth in him, to believe in him so passionately that he'd fallen from Heaven for the sake of it? It just doesn't make sense, will never make sense. But somehow, they're here, together, and Dean feels lightheaded from more raw happiness than he's felt in over a decade.

Cas's breathing has deepened, and when Dean nudges him, he realizes the angel is asleep. He's too calm to worry about the fact that angels don't sleep. In fact, he's too calm to worry much at all, not about Crowley or the word of God or if Benny's getting himself into more trouble. He doesn't care about anything except how perfectly Cas seems to fit in his arms. He'd be fine with just laying here for the next two days, breathing in fresh mountain air and rain.

* * *

After introducing Cas that morning to the basic human luxury of a hot shower — and crossing his shower fantasy off the list, which leaves 99 to go — they meet up with Sam for breakfast. He's obnoxiously obvious about noticing the difference between them, all knowing looks and eyebrow lifts. He informs them he's found a case, but Dean only sort of half-listens. He's more interested in watching Cas taste-test his coffee while experimenting with different levels of cream and sugar — he hates it black — eyes tracing the contours of his face and grinning when he scrunches up his nose in disgust at the bitterness.

"Dean, did you hear me?"

"Yeah, Sammy, family of ghouls. Sounds like a good time." He ignores the smile that spreads across his brother's face, no doubt having been caught staring at Cas like a pre-teen girl in the middle of math class.

"I can always go it alone if you want."

"What? No, no way. Cas and I are in, aren't we?"

Cas nods in agreement, wincing again at the taste of his coffee. "Ugh, I think I put too _much_ sugar in."

Dean rolls his eyes, grabbing the mug and switching it with his. "Here, start fresh," he laughs.

Sam's eyebrows are practically raised to his hairline this time when Dean looks back at him. "Whipped."

"Eat your breakfast, bitch."

"Fine, you're a whipped jerk, then."

"Perfect," Cas mumbles, finally satisfied with his coffee. "Thank you for giving me yours," he says to Dean, leaning in to kiss him. Dean pretends not to notice the several people staring at them. He simply attributes it to the fact that they're in Ohio right now, refusing to let his paranoia kick in at the idea that they could be signed onto one of Crowley's deals.

Things have been going strangely well for the past ten hours or so, and with the kind of life he leads, he can't help but feel like it's the calm before the storm. After all, Crowley will be back day after tomorrow, and he may have the general gist of things, but he's still not really sure what to expect when "showtime" comes around. He wants to stab the douchebag in his stupid smirking face is all he knows for sure — he won't, though, because Cas doesn't want him to risk it, and he tries not to think too much about the depth of trust he's put into Cas to stand down like this. It's not just any demon, it's Crowley. He and Cas have history, and thanks to that, Cas and Dean have had some bad blood too. But all that's ceased to matter, he reminds himself. The past is the past, what's dead should stay dead, yadda yadda. He supposes he should be glad they've rekindled that intense trust, and he is. It's just that, now, the pedestal of unrealistic expectations has been lowered considerably — shattered to pieces, more like. Maybe some people would say that's good, that that's how relationships work; but he sees it more as having to live with the terrifyingly real possibility of being betrayed all over again.

And he figures that that's exactly what trust means.

* * *

As it turns out, the two days Crowley had given them wind up turning into three days, then four, five, and it just keeps on going. After a week, Dean is suspicious, but he's opting not to pay it too much attention. Instead, he takes advantage of the extra time — or rather, he and Cas do, and Dean is loving this. The excitement of having a new lover, a multitude of experiences to share with someone in secret, and an unexplored body to learn and map. Plus, given that he already knows Cas inside out personality-wise, he gets to spend _a lot_ of time doing so.

When they hit a ten-day mark, it's Sam who says something.

"Dean, do you really think we should just keep ignoring this, pretending like nothing weird's going on?"

They're picking up food — if crappy TV dinners count as it — at the grocery store, while Cas inspects the perimeter outside with the EMF meter. Their next case has taken them here, where they suspect ghost activity they'll have to thwart, and they might as well stock up while they're at it.

"Look, Sam, I'm with you on the weird part, but maybe we shouldn't stare this one in the mouth. Crowley could've...I don't know, gotten offered a better deal and changed his mind."

"Seriously? You think he'd pass up an entire line-up of souls?"

"Could've."

"If he was offered another deal, a better one, he would've taken them both. It's Crowley, Dean. He wouldn't let you guys off this easy and you know it."

They drop the subject temporarily as they reach the check-out lane and pay for their items, but Sam's back to pushing the moment they're in the parking lot and out of anyone else's earshot. "All I'm saying is I'd like to not constantly be worrying that he'll just...show up to collect my brother. I want to know what the hell's going on."

Dean pauses after he's placed the groceries in the Impala's back seat and locked the door again. "You want to summon him, don't you?"

"If there's really nothing going on, then there won't be a problem, right?"

"I don't think we should press our luck. Come on, let's go find —"

He's stopped short by a loud crash from somewhere around the back end of the store, and then the sharp, unmistakable clash of blades. Remembering that Crowley had recently come into the possession of an angel blade, Sam and Dean exchange looks and start sprinting toward the source of the noise. Panic courses through Dean's veins, turning his blood to ice, and his heart is hammering almost painfully by the time they round the corner to see — nothing. Some knocked-over trash cans, a dent in the dumpster, but no Crowley and, more importantly, no Cas.

Dean storms off on his own, looking every which direction and briefly jogging around the entirety of the store. "Cas?!" he shouts over and over, not once receiving a response. He and Sam spend the next five or so minutes asking people inside the store if they've seen him, but no luck. The sharp spikes of his panic pool together, settling into a shiver-inducing fear, and then he's clenching his fists and making a decision. He isn't really seeing any other options now that this card's been played.

Looks like they'll be summoning Crowley after all.

* * *

Luckily, with the years of hunting experience they have under their belts, obtaining the ingredients for the demon-summoning ritual is practically a milk run. What they don't have already isn't too hard to get through their various connections. The downside, however, is that driving around to collect the few supplies they still need is a process, and it's not until three in the morning a stress-filled two days later that they're ready.

Dean's completing a devil's trap with masking tape on the floor of their newest motel room. By the time he's done, Sam's finished with the recipe he's concocted atop the table they're using as a makeshift altar.

"Are we ready?"

Sam nods, and Dean grabs the aged book he'll be reading from far too quickly. He hisses in pain, the bandaged wound from where he'd had to slice his palm open stinging like a bitch all over again. The farther he gets into the reciting of the ritual, the faster his anger churns inside his stomach. He feels it rising to a boil, his knuckles going white from his firm grip on the book, and he quickly memorizes the last line so he can stare intently at where Crowley will appear as he says it.

Only...Crowley doesn't. For an entire minute, nothing happens.

"You're sure we got everything we needed?" Dean snaps.

"Positive," Sam assures, glancing nervously around the room.

"Well, then where the fuck is he?"

"Hello, boys."

Dean whirls around, met with Crowley's laidback smirk, his stance so goddamn casual that Dean feels like throwing him into a wall. And that's just about what he does, too, driving him back at full force.

"Where is he, you bastard? If you changed our deal, big fucking thank you for filling me in."

Crowley looks genuinely taken aback. "Where is...who?"

"Who the hell do you think?"

"I think that this would go a lot quicker if you'd just tell me."

Dean tightens his fisted hold on Crowley's suit jacket, pulling him forward and then immediately shoving him back again. "Where's my angel?!" Something sickly coils inside him at the pleased smile that spreads slowly across Crowley's face, apprehension creeping along his spine.

"Congratulations, bucko," the demon exalts, except it's a voice not his own. "You said the magic words."

"What the f..." Dean trails off as Crowley's features shift, and suddenly, he's glaring down at Gabriel.

The realization is slow to kick in, and there's a few more seconds of silence while he tries to process the turn of events through his rage. The archangel's eyebrows are raised expectantly, until he finally gets tired of waiting and shoves Dean off him. Beaming like he's beyond fucking proud of himself, he turns to face both brothers. "Surprise!" he says a little _too_ gleefully.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Call it —" Gabriel cups his chin with his fingers, exaggerating how hard he's thinking — "a lesson in love."

Impulsively, Dean tries to rush forward, but is stopped by Sam. They both know how bad an idea slugging an angel is, though somehow, the one who hasn't actually tried it is the better one at remembering.

"The question still stands, jackass," Dean barks. "Where's Cas?"

Gabriel throws his hands up. "Cassie's safe and sound, I assure you. He'll be back with a snap of my fingers."

"Then get to it."

"Hang on, cowboy, there are conditions. I didn't pull this whole stunt for nothing." The expression he shifts to, satisfied smirk and bright eyes changing into solemn concern, looks foreign on him. They'd only seen him wear it once before, trapped in a ring of holy fire while the threat of the apocalypse still loomed high over their heads. Gabriel steps forward enough to be directly in front of Dean, his gaze capturing the hunter's with an unforgiving sternness. "For starters, quit bullshitting around."

Dean narrows his eyes defensively. "Excuse me?"

"Don't pretend like you haven't been for the past, oh, I don't know, three years? And clearly, hoping you'd come to your senses was a lost cause without a little push. It is you, after all."

Dean wishes Gabriel _was_ a demon so he could hit him without shattering every bone in his hand.

"_Sooo_, I waited until you were good and attached to the idea — and then, naturally, I took it away."

The idea? Oh, right. _The idea_.

"You're telling me" — and there's that bubbling anger making itself known again — "this whole thing, all this crap...was you playing matchmaker?"

"This was me looking out for my little bro." The hardness in Gabriel's face reverts back to his previous simper seamlessly — a tendency that's just so _Gabriel_ that Dean wants to smack his forehead for not putting the pieces together in the Impala the other day.

Finally, Sam pipes in. "Looking out for your little bro? You were threatening to _sell him_ for _sex_."

"Well, you can't expect me to do anything without adding my own personal touch! None of it was real, _duuuh_." Dean purses his lips when Gabriel claps him on the shoulder and laughs. "Now, last of all, don't you dare treat my brother like baggage again, you got that? After everything he's done for you two morons, he doesn't deserve that."

Dean has to admit he agrees on that one. He still feels like a dick for what he'd said about Cas being a liability, but he's pretty certain he's already more than made up for it.

"So, think you can handle it, big boy?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Done and done, alright? Just get him back here."

"One angel stupid enough to fall for you coming right up!"

With a snap of his fingers, Gabriel's gone and Cas is tumbling into the room.

* * *

The next morning, Dean's on a mission to kiss every inch of Cas's body. He makes a mental note to buy Sam a dinner or something for offering to sleep in the Impala, since it'd been too late at night to book another room. That's the last thought he doesn't dedicate to which parts of skin he's missed.

By the time he's done — for now, at least, 'cause like hell did he get everything — Cas is in fits of laughter. Dean sits up, that same, previously unrecognizable warmth spreading inside him at the sight of it. The guy who'd once seemed incapable of so much as cracking a smirk can hardly keep a straight face for more than a second.

"Do I entertain you that much?"

"It feels — funny, like — feathers," Cas manages to reply in-between laughs.

Dean chuckles. "I think 'it tickles' are the words you're looking for." He collapses back onto the bed, listening to Cas's cachinnation finally die away.

"Dean, I'm sorry for my brother, I really am." He says it through a yawn, moving to settle in closer. "I would've stopped him if I'd known."

"Don't worry about it, Cas. It's not your fault he decided to be an asshole." He drapes one arm around Cas's shoulders, fitting the angel's head beneath his chin. "But, anyway...I'm kinda glad he did."

He can feel Cas's smile grow against his skin. "Me, too."

"And let's make a pact right now, 'kay?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"No public sex."

Cas is laughing again, and it's really not that funny, but for some reason, Dean is grinning stupidly like it is. He rests his face against Cas's mussed-up hair, deciding he wants to get his car an air freshener that smells like fresh mountain air and rain. He likes that idea.

* * *

**A/N:** I just realized that I didn't even address the fact that Gabriel's supposed to be dead. Oh, well. Please ignore that (let's pretend he never even died because I wish he hadn't), and I hope you enjoyed it. :)


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